Elaine stifled yet another yawn despite the midday sun shining brightly overhead.

When she’d returned to the tent last night, it had already been late. But she hadn’t been able to sleep knowing Jerome was speaking with de Soules, and then when he returned, she’d listened eagerly as he’d recounted their conversation.

Even once Jerome had settled himself on the ground next to the cot and she’d pulled the coverlet over herself, sleep had eluded her. Like Jerome, she was frustrated not to have learned more about de Soules’s motives or aims, yet though she’d tumbled his words over and over in her mind, no answers had presented themselves.

“Rest against me.”

She started mid-yawn when Jerome’s gruff, low voice rumbled through her. They swayed together with his horse’s steps, she perched across his lap and he with both arms encircling her so that he could hold the reins.

She had already given up yesterday’s effort to put even a hair’s breadth of space between them. Today, she was too tired to care.

And besides, the tension that had crackled in the air around them yesterday had apparently fizzled away now that they were both so focused on unraveling de Soules’s scheme. She hadn’t forgotten the fact that he’d rebuffed her, yet his suggestion now to lean against him and take some rest seemed a peace offering of sorts.

Gratefully, she eased back against his chest, her head fitting beneath his chin and her shoulder tucking under his arm.

“Ye’ll run yerself ragged if ye arenae careful.” The words were spoken so low that she felt more than heard them where her ear pressed against the base of his throat.

“I can’t help it,” she murmured. “I can’t stop thinking about what de Soules could be about. If he wants to steal the Bruce’s declaration, why hasn’t he made a move yet?”

“I dinnae ken,” he replied. “Mayhap he plans to wait until we are closer to Avignon. Or mayhap he doesnae wish to steal it at all and is scheming something else.”

“And why did he slip off last night?” she continued, casting her gaze on de Soules’s back. He rode with Kieran and the bishop behind the King. Though the guards rode on either side of Jerome’s horse, there was no chance she could be overheard, what with the rumble of the wagons behind them.

“Might he have been meeting with another conspirator? And if so, who?”

She felt Jerome shake his head slightly. “Good questions, all, lass, but we simply dinnae ken enough to answer them. I ken ye dinnae like it, but all we can do is continue to wait and stay alert.”

But her tired mind could not drop the matter, so she went back over the words she’d overheard in Scone. Though no new insights miraculously came, one tidbit niggled at her.

“De Brechin called you the Munro lapdog. What does that mean?”

He stiffened, and she drew back her head to look at him. She found his jaw clenched and a muscle jumping behind the dark stubble on his cheek. He stared forward, his eyes hard and flat.

“‘Lapdog’ isnae new, though they usually call me the Munro hound—behind my back, of course.”

Ire rolled off him just as surely as his heat and masculine scent did. This was clearly a delicate subject, but Elaine couldn’t help her curiosity. Considering all they’d shared in the last fortnight—intimacies she’d never experienced with another man—she knew little of Jerome’s life outside this mission for the Bruce, and even less about his past.

“Why?” she asked tentatively.

He remained silent so long that she thought he would refuse to answer. But when she settled her head against his chest once more, he spoke.

“I am known to be loyal to my Laird—to the point of being rabid, some say.”

“Oh?” she murmured. “And why is that such a bad thing?”

“It isnae—no’ in most circumstances, anyway. My reputation for fiercely protecting my Laird is why the Bruce brought me into his Bodyguard Corps. And why I was selected for this mission. He and my Laird decided—rightly—that my loyalty could be harnessed for the larger cause.”

“I still don’t understand,” she said carefully. “Hound, lapdog—the epithets clearly bother you, but why?”

He let a slow breath go. “Because most who throw around such descriptions dinnae ken why I am this way.”

Elaine waited, listening to the steady thrum of Jerome’s pulse beneath her ear. Though tension still radiated from him, his heart beat true. Yet without having to ask, she knew they now skirted a topic which had wounded that strong, noble heart long ago.

She had seen his features harden and a shadow cross his chestnut eyes enough times to know that some unhealed hurt lived deep inside him. He compensated for it with unbending dedication and unquestionable loyalty, yet the wound was still there.

“Tell me,” she breathed.

He shifted, and she feared he meant to pull away, but instead he simply lowered his nose to her hair and inhaled deeply.

“Like ye, I grew up surrounded by war and strife,” he said at last, his breath stirring the locks at the crown of her head. “But in the Highlands, we were no’ only fighting the English, but also each other. When the Bruce crowned himself King in 1306, it divided the country—and many a clan.”

She felt her brows furrow. “I didn’t realize all of Scotland didn’t immediately fall behind the Bruce.”

“It nearly tore us apart. Many Scots had supported King John Balliol, the Bruce’s predecessor, despite the fact that he’d practically been selected by King Edward I and was little more than England’s puppet. But there is a certain security in kenning who yer master is. Freedom is far harder—and more dangerous.”

“And some Scots wished for Balliol over the Bruce?”

“Och, nay, Balliol was deposed back in 1296. Of course, this was all well before yer time, and nearly before mine as well, so I am no’ surprised ye dinnae ken about all the tangled knots in Scotland’s history, but we Scots tend to have long memories—and hold grudges.”

A smile curled her lips. “But I want to know. Scotland is my adoptive country now.”

He chuckled softly. “I’ll give ye the short version for now. Before Balliol, King Alexander III was Scotland’s King. When he died, there wasnae a clear line of succession, and several rivals competed for the crown—including the Bruce. But Edward I hand-selected Balliol kenning he would be easily controlled, making Scotland more a vassal state under English control than a sovereign country in its own right. We called Balliol Toom Tabard—‘empty coat,’ for he was naught more than Edward’s puppet.”

“Then how was he deposed?”

“Scotland’s nobles and lairds rose up against Balliol and established a council of twelve men to lead the country instead. But of course Edward didnae like that, so he launched the first of his wars against us. With his puppet King Balliol abdicated and held in the Tower of London, Edward sought to make himself King of Scotland—and bring us to our knees as his subjects. But as I’m sure ye ken by now, Scots dinnae like being told what to do. So we rose up. William Wallace was one of the first to show us that we could fight for our freedom—and mayhap even win.”

“I’ve heard tales of him,” Elaine interjected.

“Aye, he was the stuff of legends, but even he eventually fell to the English. Still, we fought on, despite no’ having a King of our own—until the Bruce crowned himself and began mounting a true effort for freedom.”

“And some didn’t like that.”

“A few Scots remained loyal to Balliol even after he was removed, for they saw rule by the English as a better alternative to the messy, complicated prospect of true independence. Though Balliol wasnae an option anymore, those who’d stood behind him tried to argue their own claim to the Scottish throne. John the Red Comyn was one such claimant, and a Balliol sympathizer. But just before the Bruce took the crown, he killed Comyn.”

“What?” How had Elaine never heard stories of that?

Jerome sighed. “No one truly kens what happened, for they were alone in a church together. They were meeting to discuss the Red Comyn’s support of the Bruce’s impending reign, but apparently Comyn reneged on his word and withdrew his support. Things escalated, they fought, and Comyn ended up dead. The Pope excommunicated the Bruce for killing before the altar. That’s one of the many reasons why the Bruce’s petition to the Pope now to acknowledge Scotland’s sovereignty and the Bruce’s claim as King is so important,” he said, his hand unconsciously dropping to the pouch where the declaration lay.

Elaine chewed on all this information for a long moment.

How little she truly knew about the intricate and chaotic machinations of war, politics, and power, she realized. For so long, she’d idolized the Bruce’s cause, thinking it pure in its quest for freedom. But now she saw that such simplicity was childish and naïve.

Of course there had been strife and struggle along the way. It didn’t change her belief in the rightness of the Bruce’s efforts, but rather cast a new light under which to examine herself. Things were so much more complicated than she had ever thought when she’d dreamed of joining the cause. Yet if she wished to leave such naïveté behind, she had to be willing to see all the shades of gray in the world.

When the silence stretched, a question rose to her lips. “And…and what does this have to do with you? Certainly you were too young when all this happened to have played a part in it.”

She felt Jerome’s throat bob with a hard swallow. “Aye, I was only fourteen when the Bruce killed Comyn and crowned himself King. But as I said, many clans were nearly ripped asunder disputing whether to support the Bruce or the Comyns and others who declared that they had a claim to the throne. Many felt that the Bruce’s acts against the Red Comyn were enough to warrant his death.”

“And the Munros were one such divided clan?”

Jerome gave a curt nod. “Our Laird, Donald Munro, decided to throw his support behind the Bruce. It was our first real chance at freedom, and though the Bruce had made mistakes, Laird Munro believed the man to be an honorable, worthy King. But my father, Owen, argued that the clan should back the Comyns, who, like Balliol, would have acquiesced to English control. My father and the Laird fought—to the point that my father challenged Donald for leadership of the clan.”

Elaine pulled in a breath. “And was he successful?”

“Nay.” The word was spoken through gritted teeth. “Owen failed. The clan remained loyal to Donald, and my father was banished from Munro lands.”

“Were…were you banished as well?”

“My mother, older brother, and I were permitted to stay—on the condition that we couldnae have further contact with my father. For a few months, it seemed the matter was resolved. We tried to rebuild our lives, to live peacefully amongst the clan. But Owen wouldnae let the matter go.”

Jerome drew in a deep breath, as if steeling himself for what he was about to say. Elaine stiffened, waiting.

“Owen snuck back to Munro lands one day while the Laird and his young son, George, were out on a hunt. Owen kidnapped George and slipped away. He sent Laird Munro a missive with his demands—namely, that George wouldnae be released until Donald dropped his support for the Bruce and pledged the clan to the Comyns’ claim.”

“Did your Laird acquiesce?”

“Nay,” Jerome said, his voice as sharp and flat as a blade. “Laird Munro understood he had to put what was best for his clan over all else—even his family. But he launched a search party for Owen and George. They hunted them down across half the bloody Highlands, but at last they found my father and the lad. Yet even cornered and outnumbered, my father still wouldnae yield. There was a scuffle and—”

His deep voice caught in his throat. He swallowed again before going on.

“And the lad was killed. My father was taken alive to face his crimes before the Laird. Owen couldnae deny what he’d done, of course—to the very end, he believed he was doing what was best for our clan, even in killing the Laird’s son. George had only been eight summers old.”

Sickness roiled in Elaine’s stomach even as tears burned her eyes. “And…and what of your father?”

“He was given a traitor’s death, which he deserved, but that wasnae all. My brother, Tavish, had apparently been in contact with Owen. Tavish had been the one to tell my father that the Laird and his son would be out on a hunt. The clan demanded that Tavish pay for the loss of the Laird’s son as well. So Tavish was hanged.”

“Oh, God.” Elaine’s heart shattered for Jerome. Tears streamed down her cheeks unchecked. “To lose your father and your brother…”

“The clan wanted my head as well.” Jerome’s voice was emotionless, as if he were speaking of someone else, someone from another time whose pains and losses were not his own.

“Why? What could you have possibly done to deserve punishment?”

“Many thought I might have been a part of my father’s schemes and aided him, as Tavish had,” Jerome replied flatly. “Tavish was eighteen, a man grown in the eyes of the clan. And he’d knowingly helped my father even after Owen had been banished. I hadnae kenned what Owen and Tavish were about, but I was fourteen—still a lad in many ways, but in the Highlands, I was considered old enough to be held accountable for my family’s actions.”

Jerome’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and when he spoke again, the frost in his voice began to thaw. “But Laird Munro defended me. He believed in my innocence and refused to adhere to the clan’s calls to punish me. I dinnae ken how much of that was because he was still grieving the loss of his own son, but he took me under his wing, put his faith in me. And when my mother died less than a year later—some said out of grief for losing both her husband and her eldest son—the Laird became my only family.”

Elaine lifted her head from Jerome’s chest so that she could meet his eyes. She finally understood the pain that lurked in their dark depths.

“That is why you are so loyal to your Laird,” she said, her voice thick and low with emotion. “He saved you.”

The corners of Jerome’s mouth tightened ever so slightly. “Aye, I pledged my life to serve him—and the Bruce, for my loyalty to clan and country are cut from the same cloth. But it is more than that. I willnae give anyone reason to question my allegiance again. I am the son of a traitor and a murderer. I cannae change that, but I damn well intend to ensure that I can never be accused of the same.”

She rested her hand over his heart. “But how could anyone blame you for the sins of your father?”

“As I said, we Scots have long memories—and cling to our grudges. Even the slightest slipup, a hesitation or wee error could destroy all that I’ve worked for these past fourteen years.”

Realization struck her like a blow to the gut. “That is why this mission is so important to you—because you are treating it as some sort of test, and if you fail in any way, you think you’ll be branded a traitor.”

Her words must have struck a nerve, for his eyes flashed with frustration. “Everything is a test. My whole bloody life is a test to prove that I am no’ like my father, and one misstep would be my ruination.”

“The Bruce chose you for this assignment because he already trusts you,” she countered.

“Aye, and Laird Munro trusted my father—until he betrayed him. Dinnae ye see, Elaine? The past is never over and done with. It hounds me at every moment, waiting to drag me back into its jaws.”

Another realization came on the heels of the first. “And that is why you rebuffed me the other night. You will not let yourself feel aught for me because you are afraid…afraid I’ll distract you or cause you to fail somehow, is that it?”

The words brought a wave of emotion rising in her throat, but they had to be said. For the terrible truth was, Elaine had begun to fall in love with Jerome—and not for show, not for the sake of fooling the others or catching de Soules in his scheme.

It was as delicate as the first budding flowers of spring, yet the feeling was undeniable. He was honorable and protective, brave and noble of heart. And his touch, his gaze, even his mere presence stirred something deep in her very soul.

But was she dooming herself to a shattered heart by falling for a man who refused to care for her in return?

He met her gaze, his eyes hard as stone. “Aye,” he said. “That is the bald truth—there isnae room in my life for ye, and there never will be.”

She sucked in a pained breath, but he went on, his words like a knife to her chest.

“My dedication to clan and country will always come first, for naught will ever be more important to me than proving my loyalty.”

“And this?” she breathed. “What are we, then?”

His eyes flickered with some unreadable emotion before he shuttered them once more. “We had a dalliance at Trellham and Scone. It cannae be more than that.”

Some part of her screamed that he was lying, that she knew he’d felt the same spark when they kissed, the same ache when they were apart. Yet she was already in danger of losing her heart. She could not risk more.

She ripped her gaze away from his, silently cursing herself. She’d been so determined to prove herself as well, to show that she wasn’t some silly chit only good for coddling. And then she’d gone and fallen for the first man she’d ever kissed, a man who was so haunted by his past that he could not see what was right in front of him.

“I-I understand now,” she willed herself to say past the tightness in her throat.

Just as she lifted a hand to swipe at the tears dampening her face, King Philip dropped back and reined his horse alongside theirs.

“Come now,” the King chided, a gentle frown on his face. “No more tears, my lovebirds. I do not know what has you quarrelling again, but there is no better remedy than to kiss and make up. You are in France—let yourselves love and be happy.”

Dread sank like a stone in her stomach as she dared a glance at Jerome. His jaw was set firmly and his eyes were filled with pained determination. Of course, for this mission he would be willing to kiss her—but naught more. And hadn’t she been the one to bind them in this ruse with her foolish declaration of love?

She gave him the barest nod, silently telling him that she would play along—even as a fresh swell of hurt rose in her chest.

He dipped his head until his lips met hers in an achingly tender kiss.